late night thoughts...

...make the best scribbles.

I cross my feet sometimes while standing as I'm brushing my teeth. My right foot on top of the other. I am able to appreciate this as a sign of 'myself-ness,' as something that I and only I typically do. I wonder if my child will do that. I wonder perhaps if my child would do that if they never saw me do it. I wonder perhaps if I will have a child.

I think I would want to, and I think I would want the father to know, and to love these things about me, and to look for them in his child as I would, if their feet cross when they brush their teeth. I would want them to want that their child too rest one foot on the other leg, almost yoga-style in tree position, as they wash dishes. 

But mostly, I realise now, that I want to be this me: the one whose right foot is on her left foot while she brushes her teeth, whose right foot leans on her left knee while she washes dishes - not good, not bad, but just me.

Timothy-Joseph

One could stay through all of autumn
and shed not a single dry leaf.
Thank you, for all the world's willows,
for the many that weep for him.

Goodbye Timothy-Joseph. May you rest in peace. x

Talking with the enemy

Ever since I grew my curls
I miss you less.

Give in to the night.

Give in to the night,
That thing called sleep.

But it seems the day is unfinished, and sleep cannot be so easily earned.

Been thinking lately how abstaining from talking may help writing, venting the inner conversation about things that need not be discussed, but simply transferred to paper (or blog), and developed further. 

So lately I've been really touchy about the issue of 'appreciation,' about 'how much I have done for so-and-so' and how ungrateful they have been.

And it made me think about C, and how he seemed to run from all my 'help,' because it probably did come with strings attached, even if those strings attached no particular end, but only a particular person - me. Stay close to ME, they'd say, tying him in a web of an intimacy sought through favours that could not be returned, and should not be returned.

And it also made me realise that for a very long time, I may have been seeking to sell favours, for something unspoken in return. Sometimes I say I Joyful Girl, but other times I'm not so Ani diFranco about it. Hell even Ani diFranco isn't so selfless about it, if she needs to remind herself.

And sometimes I resent it so much, this sense that because of all this unsolicited giving, I've been taken for granted. Or worse that people see it, and don't want it anymore, favours that don't come for a named price, that make them feel weighed and sentenced to you on indefinite terms.

Fuck them.

I hate this children's-book mental image of the world, where it echoes back whatever you send forth.

"Fuck you, world!"

"Well, fuck you too, child!"

It's so hard to say the opposite when you're having one of those moments with the world.

"You're pissing me off right now, world, but it's not you, it's me. And someday soon, I will see you are all beautiful... It kind of evades me now."

Sounds like a break up.


Strangely at the same time there have been contemplations on commitment - on marriage and lowering expectations. And it makes an awful lot of sense that people are going to change and hate each other's guts, and what endures is something else than the passion which seems to be the only thing people associate with love these days. (These days, as if I had had incarnations of marital experience).



Well, Feck It. :P

Probably my most poorly constructed post ever, but Feck It too. 

I Give In To Reading Which Gives In To The Night.

And so it is

Thank you, Rachel.

If not a book, at least this blog is revived thanks to you.

And there it is again, the fear of revealing too much, the fear of being too honest while looking at a mirror for fear that what I may see would be too ugly. It's the inner venom - funny enough, C.K. used that word too to describe my spewing. Maybe it hurt because it was so right.

This is going to come out like a journal, and maybe you were hoping for more creative work.

Well, too bad, innit? ;)

So I've been feeling bummed, and since that's all I care to think about I'll just write about that till I bore myself.

And just then, I see this, so pretty - a reversible fabric bag I bought at the FleaMarket in Germany, handcrafted by someone and for EURO 5 but worth so much more... happiness and a smile for brightening an otherwise glum moment.

I leave you with this:

May we create and enjoy such prettiness, all the time :)

No one will read this

That is what I have to tell myself before I blog these days, because I am too afraid and too silent. So you are not really reading this. :)
....
... I'm blocked again, because I acknowledged you.

I wish I was Mary Oliver, kind and old and wise. But especially I'd have liked to be kind, to myself, to you. Here is what Mary Oliver would have said:

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.


and here is what I can say...

...
...

Looking at You

You sit quietly so well:
your hands don't fidget,
your lips do not tremble.

If it were not for your eyes,
your large, overwhelming eyes,
I would not know you were
crying.


I wrote the above but I do not like the above. Mainly because it ends with 'crying' - I wish I had found another way to say it, but right now am not keen to find another way, am lazy - and I just want to get this on paper before it disappears like other lines in my head. Lines like:
"I like to stare at dead things." I'm going to try to put that in a story. A story that has another line like "Then why do you keep our pictures still?"